Dii Tey: The Memoirs of a Telvanni Dovahkiin
by TwillinOfTheWillows
Summary: The story of a Telvanni Dunmer, recording her rise and fall in the land of Skyrim, a land where many would gladly kill her as soon as look at her, especially in the days of the Civil War. A telling of her many quests, adventures, and faliures- written by her own hand.
1. Prologue

**Mine this is not. Most of this belongs to Bethesda Softworks; I just own Nirael.  
**

* * *

I am Qodovahsil, the Last Dragonborn. Perhaps you have heard of me, or read a book with my name in it. Or perhaps you do not know me as that name. I have gone by many in the long years of my life: Champion of Hermaeus Mora, Merida, Azura, Mephala, Boethiah; Listener of the Dark Brotherhood; Arch Mage of the College of Winterhold; Thane of Whiterun, Solitude, Winterhold, and Riften. And yet I also go by my birth name, though it is long forgotten by many: Nirael of House Telvanni, one of the few remaining Wizard-Lords of the Telvanni.

I do not live in a mushroom Tel, as many Wizards have and do. I prefer my mountain, high in the clouds, close to the sky. I have always dreamt of flight; as a mortal, it is impossible. But I have had the honour to ride upon the backs of my fellow dragons. It is a most incredible feeling; soaring high above the clouds, breathing that cold thin air that makes me feel light headed. There is no shout made to allow mortals to take the form of dragons, allowing them the freedom such a form gives. I have found manuscripts of those Dragonborn who have tried: all have failed.

But you must forgive me for rambling. I am sure you are wanting to ask, "what is this that you are writing, Nirael? Why is it in the Dragon tongue?" I believe I shall answer.

This transcript is my memoirs, my story of how I went from aspiring Telvanni Wizard to Dragonborn, Wizard-Lord of Telvanni. I have many spells to preserve my memory, Shouts that I have discovered to make remembering easier. But I fear that in my old age, not even those safeguards are holding, and my memories are fading.

The Common Tongue does not come so easily to me now; I am an aged Dragon, and the language of my soul is what I wish to write in. Yes, I can still speak, read, and write in Common and Elvish, but they are harder to comprehend. It is too soft by comparison to the Dragon Tongue, where each line that is spoken sounds like a harsh incantation to the Divines. They are gentle, soft, forgiving in the mouth; Dragon is strong, harsh, and powerful.

Perhaps before we begin I should tell you a bit about myself. I am currently 686 years old, and I do not believe I shall live much longer. Yes, many Dunmer live to be at least 700 years old, but few of them carry the guilt and sorrow that I have had to bear for the past several hundred years.

What a strange concept, in and of itself: that a Telvanni may carry such heavy sorrow and guilt. Few of the Telvanni I met, knew, and grew up with have such scruples. They have done terrible things, but they do not feel such remorse. Perhaps I am a defective Telvanni; I do not care.

In my age, my hair has thinned and turned white, where it was once a beautiful black. No longer do I keep it in that fierce spikes I so loved. The lines around my eyes have deepened, both the ones of laughter and worry. My children certainly saw to that,

There are no adventures left for me. I helped many when I was young, and killed many others. I saved this world from the fury of Alduin the World Eater, sending his soul deep into the many crevasses of Aetherius, that he may not return until he is called on to fulfil his prophecy. I walked in the shadows with the blessing of Sithis, killing for those people who had being wronged. I destroyed necromancers, killed dragons and fellow followers of Boethiah, retrieved dark artifacts that should never have seen light again.

But once again I am rambling. I think perhaps that you would like to hear my story, not be told of things that happened because of it. So let us begin…

* * *

 **This is the translation of its counterpart,** **Dii Tey** **. I got a comment asking for a translation,** _ **some**_ **where,** _ **please.**_ **So, here it is! :D**

 **If you are interested in the Dovahzul one and are just coming across this now, you can find it on my profile.**

 **Abandoned Cub, this is for you! And, yeah, I totally get it. Here it is!**

 **Twillin Out!**


	2. How it all began

**I do not own anything from from the Elder Scrolls universe. I just own my OC. Everything else owned by Bethesda.**

* * *

Some might say that my story began in Helgen, or perhaps on the plains of Whiterun where I killed my first dragon and learned that I was Dragonborn. I prefer to think that it began when I was born.

I was the bastard child of a Telvanni woman and a Redoran Council member; quite the scandal, I'm sure. Father lost his seat on the council and was expelled from House Redoran. Mother, while having little standing in House Telvanni, was not expelled, and to this day I do not know why. All I know is that she was allowed to stay, and, by extension, so was I.

I was born one year before the eruption of Red Mountain. When it happened, Mother and I fled to Cyrodiil, along with many other Dunmer refugees. There she raised me in the Imperial City, where we lived a relatively peaceful life. I believe Mother was glad we were not in Morrowind when the Argonians invaded; even if we had somehow managed to live through the Red Year in Morrowind, we would likely still have died at the hands of some resentment-driven lizard.

We lived happily enough. Mother was able to make a meager living as an alchemist and a laundry woman. When I got older, I was able to help, running messages around the city for a few coins. Together we got by. We never had anything fancy or expensive, but we had a decent life.

Mother was killed when I was 16 years old. She had been walking in the streets late at night, just coming home from the small alchemy store that we kept together. I suppose she met some drunk, wandering in the darkness of the backstreets where the guards rarely patrolled. Perhaps he wanted her in his bed and she refused; maybe he was just plain mad in his drunken state. Whatever the case, he killed her with his belt knife. He must of moved fast; Mother had the reflexes of a cat on catnip, and she knew how to keep men away from her body.

There was a small funeral. She had made a few friends, but to most she was just another Dunmer refugee trying to take their coin. I could not afford much for her, and while there were a few who donated to the cause, there was nothing truly special for her.

* * *

I stayed in the City for another three years before leaving. The pity and the looks became too much for me to be able to handle. Amazing, isn't it? How you can be that one person in the corner of the room, never noticed for years, and then something happens and everyone knows your name and your habits. But it was annoying; I wanted to forget, to let go, but every glance from a passing stranger brought the pain back.

Mother had taught me all she knew about magic, alchemy, and politics before she died, but I wanted to learn more. Yes, there were plenty of places in Cyrodiil, even in just the Imperial City where I could have learned lots about anything I wanted, but I had to leave. So I took what I needed and left in the night, leaving a small offering in the shrine we had to Azura, Boethiah and Mephala. Perhaps one of them gave me aid that night, for I was able to get away with no distractions.

* * *

I went to Hammerfell first. While I had learned how to use a dagger in such a way that I could protect myself, I wished to know more. And so I was taught how to move in both heavy and light armor, how to use a shield, how to duel wield, and how to forge the weapons and armor that I liked. At the end of it I was a competent swordswoman, favouring heavy armor and two swords. When I told my master that I was leaving, he gifted with my very own set of ebony armor and blades. It was obvious that he had been expecting this, and so I thanked him and left.

I went to High Rock next, to study magic and alchemy. There I did not stay so long, for there was less to learn since I was not starting from scratch. And, of course, my natural inhibitions toward some of the schools of magic did not help.

I was decent at Alteration; indeed, it was my best area in the realm of magic. I could do Restoration and Enchanting just fine, but Conjuration and Illusion were far harder. Of course, Destruction was my worst. Personally, I blame it on my Redoran father. I could barely conjure a simple Flames spell, and any other fire spell was completely beyond my abilities. Frost refused to do anything in my hands. Shock, though… shock and lightning I could do, however hard they could be if they wanted.

Hilarious, isn't it? The Dunmer Dragonborn who can barely cast Flames to save her life.

When I was finished in High Rock I went back through Hammerfell and Cyrodiil to Valenwood. A foolish decision on my part, perhaps, considering that it was now controlled by the Thalmor. But it was there that I learned how to move in shadows, or at least start that training. It was an even shorter time that I stayed here, because of the watchfulness of the Thalmor.

From there it was Elsweyr, where the few Khajiit who could look at me without hatred in their gaze taught me the ways of a thief. I could do it, but was mediocre at best. They tended to laugh at my attempts at stealth, and I laughed with them. But Elsweyr was also under Thalmor rule, and so, just as with Valenwood, I had to leave sooner than I would have liked.

From Elsweyr I went back into Cyrodiil, and then to Morrowind. I had no memory of it, for we had fled the Red Mountain long before I would have been able to form memories of it.

I loved it there. I went to House Telvanni and joined formally, slowly raising to the rank of Spellwright and staying there.

I stayed in Morrowind the longest. I lived there as Emperors came and went, as the Aldmeri Dominion rose in power and the Empire slowly fell.

* * *

But close to the start of the year 4E 201, I felt a strange urge to go to Skyrim, one of the few provinces I had never visited. At the time I thought it stupidity; I knew about the civil war that was happening, the hatred of the Nords towards other races. Now I suspect that it was Divine intervention, making sure I went there.

Whatever the case, I packed my armor, alchemy supplies, and everything else I needed and left, deciding to visit the Imperial City first.

* * *

It had changed. The shop and house Mother and I had kept and lived in were gone. Only a few of the remaining Mer recognized me. All the humans I had known were dead, with just their grandchildren and great-grandchildren remaining. Other shops were gone too; the Arena had been torn down and rebuilt. So much had changed, and yet so much was exactly the same.

I stayed for a time, leaving in spring for Skyrim. I knew I would not want to go there in the winter; I liked heat, not cold. And so I was crossing the border from Cyrodiil to Skyrim at the same time and in the same area as a group of Nord rebels, led by Ulfric Stormcloak.

I still think that the people who led that ambush were idiots. They took me, a _Dunmer_ , captive on account of suspicion of siding with the rebels. Rebels who hated Elves and called Dunmer Greyskins out of contempt.

I had just met the Stormcloaks at the border when the Imperials ambushed us. I fought capture, as much good as it did me, for one of them managed to get behind me and knock me on the head.

And that's how it all started. I went from wondering warrior to Telvanni Spellwright to waking up in a cart with several Stormcloaks, Ulfric himself included, us all bound for execution and I the only innocent.

* * *

 **And that's how it starts.**

 **Next time: Helgen, dragons, escape, and I don't yet know what else.**

 **Just so you all know, this will likely not updated very quickly, as from now on I shall need access to Skyrim to be able to write it, which I do not regularly have at the moment. I am attempting to fix this, but... it may take a bit. Oh, the woe, the woo, and the you-know-who! Um.**

 **There is a Dovahzul version of this if you are interested. You can find it on my profile. It will be updated soonish, but I still have a page and a half to translate. Ugh.**

 **Hope, you enjoyed, follow/favourite/review if you feel like it. It's all appreciated. :)**

 **Twillin out!**


	3. Helgen

**Heh. Believe it or not, I don't own any part of the Elder Scrolls.**

* * *

Skyrim is a beautiful land.

It is different from the other provinces of Tamriel, just as other provinces are different from each other. Its is more a quiet, understated, harsh beauty.

Morrowind is a land of danger and peace, of calm serenity and sudden danger. Cyrodiil is bright and vibrant, a melting pot of the the lands that surround it. Valenwood is green and filled with life, a flourishing place. The sands and rainforests of Elsweyr are a bright deathtrap to all but those who know how to survive, a place where knowledge and sense are vital, the deserts of Hammerfell much the same. High Rock is a place of rolling green earth and cloudy grey skies.

Skyrim is a land of rock and snow and heather and water. There are tall mountains and low marshlands, flat plains and rolling woods. It is a place where you may visit any season of your choosing, if you do not mind the travel.

Of course, these are not thoughts that tend to go through one's head when one is slowly waking up in a cart bound for execution.

* * *

It is unpleasant to wake from unconsciousness caused by a blow to the head. Even more so to wake while in a rattling cart with your hands bound, surrounded by Imperial soldiers and Stormcloak prisoners.

The soldiers who had seen to me were no fools. They likely found the Telvanni insignia that I used to wear as a necklace under my armor when I was younger, a foolish boast of how strong I was. At the time, all it did for me was to have my hands bound together even more firmly- each finger tied to the ones beside it and then to the ones of the other hand. In this way they ensured that I could not use an magic that required signs to cast, which, at the time, was most of what I could do. Cast many powerful spells that would kill any lesser summoner? Oh, yes- and many times over. But even I required the use of my hands to cast, as all but the most powerful wizards do.

It was when I started to fidget with my hands when the first Nord noticed, and spoke to me.

I will always remember Ralof and the first words he spoke to me. "Hey, you! You're finally awake! You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us."

Insignificant to you, perhaps. Simple words, with little meaning to others. But to me, they were words that I will cherish until I die.

They were words from one person to another, both seen as equal. Not one better than the other, one worse, but both living creatures with souls who were in the same tangled mess.

Ralof was different from many of the Stormcloaks I met later. He did not see himself or his kind as superior, and only truly bore anger for those who fought against the cause he followed, or who hurt one he cared for. When I first met him, us both in that cart bound for death, he did not care that I was a Dunmer, one of the elves that so many Stormcloaks hated. I was simply a fellow prisoner.

* * *

It was not a long cart ride that we were on, or, at least, the part I was awake for was not long. Ralof, and another in the cart who went by the name of Lokir, kept up an idle conversation to take their minds off of what they knew was going to happen next. They cursed the Imperials, calling them scum of the worst sort. They made comments on the weather, the plants on the side of the road, the animals they saw off in the bushes. They noted that many of the soldiers around us seemed uncomfortable in their armor, calling them fresh bloods. And so it was not long until we rode into the hold of Helgen, the gates closing behind us.

The Thalmor were there. All to watch the coming festivities, I'm sure, as the Imperials celebrated the death of the leader of the rebellion, quietly grinding their teeth at their failure to continue the war.

It was here that I met Hadvar. An honorable Nord, I suppose. He was the second to show me some sort of kindness, trying to talk the captain out of having me executed. She refused,of course. But still he offered to have my remains sent back to Morrowind. A bitter thing, perhaps. But a kindness all the same.

* * *

It is an odd feeling, to be standing in a line with others, knowing that in but a few minutes, you are going to die, just as the Stormcloak soldier who decried the Imperials did. That nothing is going to save you now.

Perhaps some feel rage burning in their veins as they are forced onto the chopping block. Perhaps some feel like the gods have forsaken them.

I felt numb. I had always known that I might die in my pursuit of knowledge. I had known, and embraced it. I did not fear death when I read the ancient tomes of magic, learning spells as dangerous for the caster as for the one they were being used on.

I feared death then, with my cheek laying on the rough, bloody wood, the Stormcloak's body beside me, his head in the basket below. I was not ready to die, to walk into the embrace of whatever Divine or Daedra that might take me.

Imagine my surprise, then, when the dragon came.

* * *

I had never seen a dragon before. I had read and heard stories of them, but never believed them to be true. How could I? They had been gone for millennia, vanished from the face of Nirn. No one believed in them anymore, not even the Nords, whose legends were borne on the wings of dragons.

Everyone at Helgen that day believed. When fire and death came on black wings, they believed. When they were struck down by claws and teeth, they believed.

* * *

It was because of that dragon, known as Alduin, that I lived. Ironic, perhaps: he had sensed me, the Dragonborn, although I did not know it yet, and come to kill me, that I would not challenge him. Instead, I was able, with the help of Hadvar and Ralof, to make it through the smoke and flames of the burning hold to the keep.

I was offered a choice there. I could go with Ralof, who had shown me kindness but stood for a cause that hated my kind, or I could follow Hadvar, one who simply saw others such I as people to either protect or fight.

Perhaps you will think me foolish. It led to an easy, even likely, way to be killed. I could have been killed, many times over.

I chose to follow Ralof.

* * *

 **Well. It's been awhile, has it not?  
** **Yeah, I don't feel like counting how many months it's been since I last updated. Sorry.**

 **Many thanks to those of you have and followed/favourited/reviewed. I always like to see that people like my story. :)**

 **So, yeah. Follow, favourite, review if you like it. It makes me happy. :)**

 **Oh, and happy holidays, I suppose.**

 **Twillin out!**


	4. Whiterun

War is a cruel thing.

There can be many causes. A turning of friend against friend. The realization of differences between each other. A utopia built on the shoulders of slaves, who now finally choose to rise up against their masters. Greed for some jewel, or new power.

As for why it is made...

I would not claim to know.

For so long, I have watched men and elves become involved with war. Perhaps it started over a small border dispute, or one simple, careless word. It becomes huge, taking over lives and controlling minds. Such leads to battles, and battles to killing, and killing to broken families and tortured souls. And then, one side will win, perhaps after five years, perhaps after one hundred. They will declare it a victory, and claim their heroes, and take over the history books with their greatness.

This war was started with an idea, and a death. It led to the turning of brother against brother, sister against sister, family against family, friend against friend.

A murder, to some. To others? An honest battle and defeat. Some cried in the streets when it happened, baying like hounds for war. Some cheered, feeling only slight remorse over the death of a ruler who had led them well for several years.

And there in the thick of it, the one who chose to kill High King Torygg: Ulfric Stormcloak.

There were stories, quiet, whispered among few mouths, that Torygg would gladly have stepped down, had Ulfric only asked. Imagine: an entire war averted, had one individual been willing to humble himself enough to consider another way.

But perhaps you would prefer to read about the choices I made, and, by extension, the consequences of them.

The time from when I entered the tone keep to the time I left is mostly a blur. I remember bits and pieces- Ralof cutting me loose, mourning his lost comrades, seeing the bear. The rest of it? A haze stained with red blood and fear, sometimes even absolute terror. Imagine: running for your life, from a dragon, supposedly the stuff of legends, as others, equally afraid, try to kill you, simply because you walk with their enemy.

My first clear memory from that time is when we finally left the keep, stepping into the bright sunlight. Even now, it seems an eternity that we were surrounded by that cold, uncaring stone, fighting for our lives.

It is only because of Ralof that I lived that day. Without him, there are many times I would have died. And it was thanks to Ralof that I had a roof over my head for several days after that.

His family was kind when he asked them to let me stay, understanding. They barely even blinked an eye at how I was a Dunmer, one of the hated elves. Rather, they smiled and welcomed me with open arms, providing all I needed for the road to Whiterun.

Not a long road by any means, of course. But certainly one prone to being followed by wolves, and sometimes even bears.

* * *

How to describe Whiterun as it was, I wonder?

It has changed greatly in the time since I first walked up to its large gates. War has taken its toll time after time. Peace has rebuilt it as many times over. The three walls, the outer, middle, and inner, protect all from attacks, be it armies or bandits. It has become the main center of trade throughout Skyrim, with merchants and traders from all four corners of Tamriel. Whiterun's people are prosperous and well to do, rarely wanting for anything.

However, that is the present. When I first entered Whiterun, it was so much smaller than it is now. Fewer shops, fewer houses. There were not nearly so many people wandering the streets as there are now. The Gildergreen was a sad comparison to what it is today, with its large, strong branches that are constantly filled with leaves and flowers, save for winter. Back in that time, it had been struck by lightning, leaving it burnt and lifeless.

The largest difference however, is the people who walked the streets. Adrienne Avenicci, the city's resident blacksmith until her death in a vampire attack. Her husband, Ulfberth War-Bear, who helped sell the weapons she forged. Braith, a child neglected by her parents who eventually grew up to marry her childhood sweetheart Lars Battle-Born. Aela the Huntress, Shield Sister of the Companions before her death by the remains of the Silver Hand. Danica Pure-Spring, who devoted her entire life to serving Kynareth. Heimskr, who dutifully preached his sermon to the world everyday until he was met by the Dark Brotherhood. Severio Pelagia, a farmer just outside the city, killed during the Civil War. Olava the Feeble, an old woman who could read a fortune in the palm of your hand.

They are all gone now. They have passed into whatever afterlife is waiting for them, be it Sovngarde, Hircine's Realm, or anything in between. Perhaps even to the Void of Sithis.

All of these names bring me some pain to write, knowing that all I have left of them is memories. Each has passed beyond my reach, be it by the blade of an enemy, sickness, injury, or old age, or something else. I bear the guilt of several of their deaths, a feeling that haunts me to this day..

There is one name, however, that even now makes it feel like I am being stabbed in the heart each time I write it, each time I place this pen to the parchment of this journal and form the curves and slashes that create the image of his name.

Balgruuf the Greater, Jarl of Whiterun.

I do not clearly remember my first meeting with him. Even days after mine and Ralof's flight from Helgen, my mind still bore bits and pieces of that absolute terror that was an enormous dragon sweeping out of the sky on black wings, causing flaming meteorites to plunge from the sky down onto the heads of the people gathered to watch that execution. Even now, I will wake in the middle of the night, mouth open in a silent scream, begging any Divine or Daedra that might hear me to spare my life from that unholy terror.

I do remember that he was quite courteous to me, the strange traveller in his halls: telling his housecarl Irileth to let me pass; listening to my story when his Steward, Proventus Avenicci, scoffed; not caring that I might have done something to truly warrant execution by the Imperials.

After listening to my story, he even saw to it that I received some piece of armor from his personal armory, as a reward for informing him as to the dragon attack.

In fact, I do believe that he was quite a large part in discovering that I was Dovahkiin. He was the one who asked me to help Farengar retrieve something from Bleak Falls Barrow, an ancient Nordic tomb that housed the first word of power I learned. He was the one who told me of the Greybeards who lived in High Hrothgar after they called me, shaking the very ground with the power of that one word: Dovahkiin.

He was truly a great man, and dearly do I regret his death.

That, however, is something I will write about later.

* * *

 **Hello mortals (and immortals, and those who aren't quite sure what their status is).  
** **I'm back. Again. Finally.**

 **As you have likely noticed, this story has gotten a new name and an updated summary. I didn't particularly like the old ones and I'm still not overly happy with these, so if you have any suggestions… please, I would be delighted if you shared something.**

 **I do apologise for not updating for so long. Like, it's been just shy of a year, pretty much. I AM SO SORRY. IT WAS NOT SUPPOSED TO BE THIS LONG.  
** **In my defence, however, it is rather difficult to write when you've several different stories bouncing around in your head. And dear Sithis, is my head crammed full of stories wishing to be written.** **Like, seriously. These Plot Bunnies have FANGS, I tell you.  
Also, school. School is evil.**

 **This chapter… is basically just world building, I admit. But, it is something, at least.**

 *****A few important notes: in chapter 2, I originally had her as already a Wizard Lord. Well, not anymore. Now, at that particular point in time, she's a Telvanni Spelllright, a rank or two down. I mean, she's got to have SOMEWHERE to grow to, yeah? Also, THE DOVAHZUL VERSION IS CURRENTLY ON HIATUS. The translater site I was using to learn the Dovahzul and translate the story underwent fairly significant changes in how it worked, and it's made it a wee bit awkward. As such, I will not be continuing the Dovahzul version for some time, if ever.**

 **However, you guys should totally check out the site. It's thuum dot org, and it's got some brilliant tips for learning and writing Dovahzul.**

 **Thank you to all who have followed and/or favorited. You people are the best. :)**

 **Twillin out_**


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